Lucky Ones
by allex
Summary: They always knew there would be sacrifices. They just never thought they would go so deep. But maybe the lucky ones were just living on borrowed time. And could it be too late for Ron and Hermione? Angsty RHr, some HG...
1. Back to the Start

**Author's Note:** Hey there! I'm not new to writing or fan fiction, but this is the first Harry Potter piece I've posted over here. This fic takes place in our happy trio's seventh year at Hogwarts. So, hopefully, you won't find it God awful or anything. Review and I'll love you forever.  
  
**Disclaimer:** It all belongs to the fabulous JK Rowling. I only wish I owned it. Sadly, I am a poor student who owns little more than a stick of gum.  
  
**Summary:** They always knew there would be sacrifices. They just never thought they would go so deep. But maybe the lucky ones were just living on borrowed time. And could it be too late for Ron and Hermione?  
  
**Chapter One:** Back to the Start  
  
_How can I ever get over you  
  
When I'd give my life for yours  
  
I know we are  
  
We are the lucky ones_  
  
**- Bif Naked, _Lucky_**  
  
[**hermione**]  
  
I will have to tell you how it came to this one day:  
  
A girl standing by a lake, letting the light spring wind brush her thick hair against her cheek as she twists a glimmering necklace around her finger. This scene will only last for a second, you see, for at any moment, they'll be calling for her; a friend, an acquaintance, a teacher maybe. They'll shout out her last name, tell her that for being about to graduate on top of your year, Granger, you certainly have a knack for being late for things.  
  
And the scene will end there, I'm afraid. Not because the girl is being whisked away, pulled from the rippling Technicolor splendor of the lake or because she's about to pull the necklace off and drop it into the deep pockets of her robes. But because in that instant, she's outgrown the stage of childhood she's tried so hard to preserve. She can't be called a girl anymore, not really: technically, she hasn't been a girl for a number of years. The graduation is the last step, she'll suppose, and then the scene will end. Because it's no longer a girl standing by a lake, but a woman standing by the lake, if that really matters.  
  
I will have to tell you about how we became the people we are one day. We can go sit down somewhere, the Three Broomsticks or maybe a muggle coffee shop I haven't visited in years. You can order a Butterbeer or a cappuccino [I promise you they're quite nice] and I'll explain the scene, the lake, the necklace. You can even see it if you'd like. I probably shouldn't still be wearing it.  
  
I will have to tell you about how it came to this one day.  
  
---  
  
_**one year earlier**_

[**ron**]  
  
_He rolled open the parchment letter with careful fingers, shaking as he read his mother's unsteady and tearstained note...  
  
**We need you to come home, something's happened...**_  
  
It was how it always happened, really: the dream [crying/graves/shrill laughing that makes his blood freeze over], the bolting upright from his sleep, the cold sweat, the quickened breathes.  
  
His dreams were always in black and white, static, like the screens of ancient muggle televisions that he had seen in store windows.  
  
The dull aching in his back brought him back to his surroundings. The hard wooden floor covered in a layer of dust, the blankets he used as a makeshift bed, the sound of Bill gently snoring in the other room. He could make out his sister's body on the couch next to him, her chest rising and falling with each breath. He reached for Ginny's wrist above him to glance at her watch. 3 AM.  
  
He could still see his father's tears when he closed his eyes hard enough.  
  
The bitter taste in his mouth came back again, the retching in his stomach. Ron pushed back the musty quilts and stumbled blindly for the bathroom, gagging as he emptied the contents of his stomach.  
  
Every night. Without fail.  
  
He leaned his back against the bathroom wall, picking at the ugly floral wall paper. Who the hell would ever thing of that as good décor?  
  
He pushed the door open again and tip toed down the hall, making sure his footsteps were inaudible when passing by the closed door of Fred's room.  
  
But maybe it was because they were all walking on eggshells around Fred.  
  
Ron reached for the dresser drawer they have moved into the living room and pulled out a pair of shorts, shedding his pajama bottoms and pulling them on. He scrawled a quick note to his siblings in case one woke up [none ever did, but still] before grabbing the extra key to the flat. He tripped over Bill in the kitchen, who snapped awake before immediately falling back asleep. Ron slipped the key into his pocket before scurrying outside the front door.  
  
He traced his fingers along the chipped orange paint of the apartment building hallway. Electric blue smoke shot out from the door to his left. The old witch who lived there must be trying to cook again.  
  
He clamored down the five flights of stairs to the lobby, waking up the painting of the elderly woman in a ballroom gown ["Out for another run, Mr. Weasley?" she yawned] before pushing open the double doors into the night.  
  
The summer air hit him like a wall, but he had been beginning to like the heat. The burning of his muscles, the panting until his almost couldn't breathe.  
  
Running wasn't his exercise of choice, of course, but Quidditch no longer seemed to be an option. Never mind the fact that hit have been his own idea for he and Ginny to sell their broomsticks to make sure they had enough money for school books in the fall. Because it was the right thing to do. The responsible thing. Doesn't mean that it didn't hurt when he watched some kid buy his broom for half of what he had originally paid for it and listened to the boy talk about using it for kindling.  
  
He sprinted harder. Maybe he could outrun the pain.  
  
_**We need you here, Ginny too...  
**_  
He could hear the crickets, the sound of his sneakers slamming against the pavement...  
  
_**It's George, oh God Ron...  
**_  
Keep going...  
  
_**Fred found his body in the storage closet of their shop...**_  
  
Run faster...  
  
_**George...  
  
Dead...  
  
Killed...  
  
Funeral...  
  
Come home...  
**_  
No one had ever expected something like this to happen to George Weasley. George, who was the mastermind behind Canary Creams. George, who had sent a Hogwarts toilet seat by owl to his little sister. George, who had turned a hallway of his former school into a swamp.  
  
No one ever saw it coming.  
  
He probably didn't, either. But a group of Death Eaters needed an easy and quick meeting place and that joke shop, yeah, the one around the corner, run by those redheaded twins...  
  
Fred will forever blame himself for his brother's death. If only they hadn't gotten into that fight, although what it was about, he can't for the life of him remember. If only George had gone with him and Lee to the pub. If only he hadn't insisted on being the one to lock up.  
  
Could've, would've, should've. Didn't change the fact that a small group of men stormed the shop to meet up, forced George behind the counter, killed him with a smirk.  
  
_Avada Kadavra._ Words that seemed to slip in and out of Ron's dreams.  
  
Maybe that was the moment the war became all the more real.  
  
George would've hated it. The funeral. Granted, there are very few people who would take pleasure in their own funerals. You'd have to be downright mad. But he couldn't have stood the tears. The solemn faces. Ron kept half expecting him to jump out from behind a tree with a giant grin and a crate of Vanishing Head Hats.  
  
He didn't, though. Jump out. And his parents were forced to bury their own son.  
  
Percy stood in the back and said nothing. Although Ron could've sworn he saw him take their mom's hand.  
  
But no one took it harder than Fred. They had been one since they were kids. FredandGeorgeWeasley.  
  
And he suddenly had lost his other half.  
  
Everything after that was a blur: their father losing his job [showing up to work more often drunk than sober was not proper ministry conduct. And firewhiskey was his suddenly chosen coping mechanism], Bill's idea that maybe he should look after Fred, Ginny, and Ron for the summer, the realization that their family no longer had a steady source of income, the scramble for enough money to get through the next year.  
  
The flat with the four of them was a good idea in theory. A place for them to stay in London, Bill would take some time off work, spend more time with his younger siblings, allow Arthur and Molly to grieve along. In reality, a one bedroom flat for four of them made for an uncomfortable living arrangement, with Fred taking the bedroom, Ginny the couch in the living room, Ron the floor next to her, Bill the floor of the kitchen.  
  
It didn't really matter, though. It wasn't as if Ron was actually sleeping.  
  
He hadn't rested a full night in over four months. Not since George had been killed.  
  
He finally slowed his pace down before stopping completely. He leaned up against the wall of an empty shop, letting his body heave and sputter.  
  
The nightly running certainly hadn't hurt him in any way, he had to admit. Ron Weasley had always been tall and lanky for his age, all pointy elbows and bony knees. It seemed that, at age seventeen, he had finally outgrown the awkward stage that had plagued him for all of his adolescence. Slightly more muscular, he no longer looked like the kind of kid you worried about walking into door frames.  
  
_**Harry and I are worried about you. We haven't heard from you in a while.  
  
Please write back.  
  
Love, Hermione.  
**_  
Right. Like she fucking cared about him. How nice of her to fit in a letter or two during her summer in Bulgaria with her perfect Quidditch super star boyfriend. How very kind.  
  
Because how the hell would she know what he was going through?  
  
She wouldn't.  
  
---  
  
**review and I'll give you a cookie. yeah. you know you want one.**


	2. Accessories and Ornaments

**A/N:** Okay, I feel a little bad posting this chapter because, well, it's so short it shouldn't even count as a chapter. But a few things are explained in here about Ron, Harry, Hermione, and ominous voice THE YEAR WHERE EVERYTHING SHOT TO HELL. i.e., sixth year. Bear with me here, guys. This story really does have a plot to it. And I'll update quicker than I did last time.  
  
Someone was asking about why exactly I put this in the Romance section...yes, there will be the obligatory romance...  
  
**Chapter Two:** Accessories and Ornaments  
  
[**harry**]  
  
Any person crossing the threshold into the Dursley home would promptly die of hypothermia from the drastic change in temperature. The warmest days of summer were heavy over Privet Drive, the lemon yellow sky pressing down on their backs and threatening to suffocate them all in one fell swoop. Something you would fail to notice if you decided against leaving the chilly interior of house number six. No, summer days like these screamed out for hyperactive air conditioners, apparently, and thus theirs was turned up as far as it could go and then some. If rain was the appropriate weather for ducks, then this was surely designed for ice cubes and polar bears [clearly the case, seeing as his uncle was beginning to resemble one more and more. Harry has come home for the summer holidays to find that half of Uncle Vernon's hair had turned white, to the man's dismay. The next month was spent trying every hair product out on the market and some illegal stuff found only in Argentina, each with disastrous results. Not to mention the fact that he weighed that of a small elephant; his body fat alone could keep him from freezing in the Arctic.]  
  
He tugged at the sleeve of his third layer of sweaters, shivering to himself as he clattered down the oak stairs. Aunt Petunia shot him a dirty look, but said nothing. There was no use in her wasting anymore of her precious breath lecturing her good-for-nothing nephew on the proper way to descend the stairs.  
  
Good-for-nothing. A term that could be attached to most things relating to him these days. Good-for-nothing friend, good-for-nothing godson, good-for- nothing student. He was still waiting for the moment in which he would actually serve a purpose to those around him.  
  
He brushed back his disheveled hair and pulled the steaming kettle off the stove. Part of his nightly routine. Pour a cup of tea, retreat to his bedroom, try to dissipate completely. Harry Potter does not live here. He has been erased, thank you very much. Come back again tomorrow.  
  
It was easier than he thought it would be. Letting himself disappear. All it took was a little practice, but hell, that was what sixth year had been about. Sixth year had been bad in a good way. Or good in a bad way. Take your pick.  
  
Sixth year had been arguments and isolation and school books hurled at each other. Sixth year had been the color of charcoal, permutated occasionally with dark static and coffee colored stains. Sixth year had been everything and nothing and whatever falls in between.  
  
But why should he be the one constantly putting up with everyone else when they just didn't understand? Their immaturities, their petty bickering, their constant terror of exams. Right. Because exams were the things to be afraid of, and not the real world. Priorities in all the correct places.  
  
Sixth year had been about cutting back to the bare necessities. Only things that were completely vital, things he absolutely needed. Ron and Hermione had been accessories. Nice to have around, but when it came down to it, just ornaments.  
  
It was like boiling water. Slight simmers of arguments with Ron escalated into not talking for days at a time. It would be Hermione's teary pleas at the breakfast table that kept the three of them together as long as they did, but even she eventually tired of constantly begging them to talk.  
  
"You can't keep lashing out at everyone around you because Sirius is gone," she told him quietly as they sat alone in the common room one night. "It wasn't my fault and it wasn't Ron's fault. I would appreciate it if you stopped acting like it was the two of us who killed him."  
  
It was the one and only time she brought up Sirius; after that, all conversations consisted of polite small talk and questions about homework.  
  
Because it was easier to blame those around him for what happened than to accept that he was the one to blame, he screwed up, he should've listened. And stopped trying to be a hero.  
  
He had long since decided to abandon the title of Boy Who Lived.  
  
Harry Potter, Resident Hero. He was now Harry Potter, Resident Jerk.  
  
Or just Harry Potter.  
  
It didn't really matter, anyway: no one seemed to mind too much when he began to drift on his own. As it turned out, Ron's company was much preferred to his own.  
  
Any eggshells he had been walking on with his best friend were completely broken after George's funeral, back in the common room after the Weasleys had insisted that Ron and Ginny return to school to finish up the rest of their year. He can't even remember what he said to Ron, something about them all having to make sacrifices in this war, a comment that was either meant to be comforting or caustic. Probably a little of both.  
  
Funny, how when you want to remember something, you seem to simply close your eyes, hoping that the images will be projected onto the inside of your eye lids. He could see nothing of that night whenever he squeezed his emerald orbs shut, just black. What would sounds look like, if they could be seen? Shouts of "Don't you ever compare what happened Sirius to with what happened to my brother, how dare you pretend to understand what I'm going through," would be murky gray; "You want to talk about pain, about suffering, I've gone through more than the lot of you, I don't exactly see the name 'Ron Weasley' written in all the history books, goddamn it," would be angry red; Tears and "Stop it stop it just stop it neither of you mean any of this, please, Ron, Harry, we used to be friends best friends let's go back to that please let's go back to being friends again," and the sound of breaking porcelain as Hermione smashed a flower vase against a nearby wall would be dark ocean blue.  
  
And that was it.  
  
Maybe it was inevitable that the three would fall apart. They could spend their days walking around with a smile and complaining light heartedly about Charms homework and arguing over why the Chudley Cannons are in a losing slump, but in the end, they had just seen too much to keep pretending that everything was fine.  
  
It was Hermione who now served as the only link between Ron and Harry, insisting on keeping up her friendship with each one of them, despite the fact that they refused to speak to each other. He was beginning to get the impression that she had become slightly delusional when it came to the break up of their trio, ending many of her letters to Ron with, "Harry and I look forward to hearing from you," or "Harry and I are worried about you," ["No, Hermione, you don't understand. I don't look forward to hearing from him and I'm not worried about him." "Yes, you are. You just don't know it." "You're off your rocker, do you know that?"]  
  
Of course, she was off in...Bulgaria, was it? Some place where it's freezing cold and they have to wear fur in the summer? What exactly do they do in Bulgaria, anyway? Ice fishing? Oh, the excitement.  
  
He picked up the abandoned parchment on his bedside table, running his fingers over the letter he received annually. No magic over the summer holidays. New school books. Start of term is on this date. The Hogwarts Express will be leaving at this time. Remember this, this, and that. This and this is not allowed. See you at school. Cheers. 


End file.
